


The Witching Hour

by Meatball42



Category: The Curious Creations of Christine McConnell (TV)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Canon-level creepiness, Family Feels, Gen, Revenge, Snacks & Snack Food, Spooky, Thunder and Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 14:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20893778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: On a dark and stormy night, a woman enters the graveyard.





	The Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).

Lightning crashes through the stormy night sky. For a split second, it illuminates a striking silhouette atop a hill. A woman’s figure, a wide skirt swirling wildly in the wind, an umbrella.

The hill overlooks a graveyard along whose edges a fast, thin river runs. Many a secret has disappeared into that river. Its surface is pitted now with the beginnings of a powerful storm, tossed to and fro by billows of air. The sounds it makes are immense, overcoming.

In the darkness, the woman descends the hill. To her left, a sharp drop over tumultuous waters. To her right, row after row of the unquiet dead. She steps with the majesty and balance of an ancient vampire, not a once wobbling on her path.

Christine reaches the base of the hill and finds the row she’s looking for. She kneels. The grass is already soaked by rain, which quickly dampens the garment. She doesn’t seem to notice. She sets her large basket down, pulls a blanket out of it, and spreads it over the grass. Then she leans against her grandmother’s grave.

“What a beautiful night,” she says, seemingly to herself. She looks up at the deep purple skies, the roiling mass of clouds jockeying for position over the land. A gust tosses her hair into her face, and she ties it back with a piece of red silk. “I love storms. Don’t you, Grandma?”

Underneath the earth, something _ groans_.

In the graves on either side, others respond.

Christine laughs. “I am so glad to hear you’re making friends. Here. I brought you a treat.”

From the basket, she produces what appears to be a gingham-wrapped packet of large ants.

“I remember that licorice is one of your favorite flavors,” Christine explains, “so I made you these. I hope you like them.”

She holds the ants over the grave. A hand emerges from the ground, caked in old dirt and fresh mud, to take them.

Christine pats the hand. “There you go.” She sighs, smiling. “It has been so nice to spend time with you these last few months. Something about having you in one place like this, it makes it so much easier to connect than when you were alive. We always seemed to miss each other.”

Another groan from the grave.

Christine seems to understand. “Yes, I know,” she says, amused. “You miss your garden. I promise I’ve been paying attention to the nightshade and the hemlock like you asked. There was… a little altercation, but they’ve settled down now. I think they might even be friends!”

The earth shifts, restless.

“I promise I will bring you the harvest,” Christine assures. “But I do have other news. The badger that lives in the woods behind your house? Well, I asked Rose to speak to him, and he has agreed to work on a little project for me. He’s been visiting the doctor who mislabeled your medication. When I went down to the village for Saturday’s Farmer’s Market, I heard that it’s been three days since he’s slept. Isn’t that nice?”

Grandma groans enthusiastically.

“Well, we’ll see how long we can push it. Bernard has told me that he wants to strike the final blow. He really misses you,” she says sympathetically. “I’ll have to see about arranging things so that he can visit you here.”

The patch above the grave moves again, and Grandma stretches her hand out.

“Oh, would you like another treat?”

The hand beckons. Christine takes it curiously. Grandma squeezes her hand and brushes the back of it with one dirty thumb.

“Oh, Grandma,” Christine says, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re welcome. I love you, too.”

Thunder races through the air, an almighty roar. It’s so loud that it covers up the sound of a nearby tree catching fire as lightning strikes it.

Christine laughs in delight, her glossy eyes lit by the glow of flames.

Throughout the village, people shiver, not knowing why.


End file.
